


No Remedy

by redux (sian22)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Distractions, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Age DNA, Kissing, Mutant, Outdoor Sex, battle compliant violence, celtic intuition, could Steve actually lose a fight?, injury description, it all ends well I promise, new relationships, not all missions go quite as planned, pacing worriedly, shield agent, stubborn pair who deserve each other, white hat hacker, yet another evil hydra baddie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sian22/pseuds/redux
Summary: Your first mission with Steve goes a little bit pear-shaped.  Or is that dagger-shaped?   In more ways than one…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emilyevanston](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilyevanston/gifts).



> For emilyevanston's 2000 follower Cards Against Humanity Challenge.  
> I drew the prompt 'multiple stab wounds' with Steve and reader.  
> It's all for the prompt ok!!! I didn't want to hurt him......really *wink*

It is all the Stealth suit’s fault.

 

That is what you tell yourself, afterwards, with the benefit of hindsight.  When you can breathe again.  When _he_ can breathe again.

 

Or at least it is probably… mostly.. ..maybe…      _Oh god._

 

That morning you have no clue about what is to come.  You aren’t thinking of the mission or its consequences, about mutants or codes or rootkits, any of the subjects you are _the_ expert in.   You aren’t thinking of anything at all quite honestly, beside the domestic routine of leaving for a short quantity of time.

 

You give a hastily washed coffee mug one last rinse, set it in the draining tray and turn around, taking in Steve’s immaculately tidy space and wondering what other last minute chore you can do.  Breakfast dishes have been done.  Scattered popcorn from the night before is swept away.  Pillows and blanket have been set back to their places on the tan leather couch.  

 

 “Should I water the plants?” you call, glancing toward the still dark skyline beyond the wall of windows. A slightly wilted looking ficus stands forlornly beside the lamp.       

 

 “Naw.” Steve’s answer comes muffled by the sound of running water.  “Jarvis will rescue them if we’re gone too long.”    

 

Well then.  Obviously one of the perks of being an Avenger.  You chuckle at the life expectancy of greenery in your own haphazard space and drift back into the kitchen.  There must be something else you can do to expend more nervous energy.  Methodically, you start stacking the dishes back in the shelves and pick up the cleaned cafetiere, pondering its place in the tidy, chrome-shiny space.  No spot looks exactly obvious.

 

 “Where does the coffee press go?”        

 

“Left of the stove!”  The shower stops. Steve pokes his head out from behind the door, hair still spikey from a hard towelling.  He takes note of the gleaming countertops and whistles appreciatively.  “Wow, you’re sharp this time of the morning. But seriously, you can leave stuff sit.  Someone will come in to clean.”   

 

“It’s ok,” you shrug.  “I need something to do.”  You do.  You’ve prepped, got into your tac uniform and reviewed the latest briefing twice in the time that Steve has taken to have one seriously extended shower.  Your eyebrow raises as your gaze drops to the white cotton towel slung low around his waist.   “Wheels up in 30.  Not sure you’re gonna make it.  Some people seem to take forever in the shower.”

 

“Some people have far less skin to wash,” he grins.  “Besides I got up late.  Who’s fault is that?”  

 

 _Technically?_   You blush at the decidedly satisfied smile upon his handsome face.  Yours, but in your defence he is proving far too irresistible when warm and sleepy.  “I’d have offered wash your back if you’d promise not to distract from the mission goals.”  

 

“No dice.”  He ducks back in and you hear the sound of shuffling closet doors.  “Can’t promise anything with you.”   

 

An honest man.  It is just the beginning of your—affair?—relationship? — whatever this is is—and already so much is clear:  Steve says exactly what he means.  Always.  Including that he can’t get enough of the touch of your long and slender fingers. 

 

 _Oh hell_.  Wrong thought track.  Cheeks flaming, you turn back the task at hand, open a pair of glass cupboard doors and set the pot beside a small porcelain sugar bowl and creamer jug.  On impulse you set the bag of coarse-grind expresso to their right--at least grouping them together makes sort of sense-- and are just standing up from tucking the drain tray below the sink when Steve comes striding out of the bedroom.

 

 Clad head to toe in navy blue.   

 

For a moment you are quite simply shocked. 

 

 “Ok.  It’s Go time.”  He sidles up beside you, claps a large steady hand upon your shoulder, blue eyes warm and encouraging.   “Ready Y/N?”  

 

“Ummm…”  you reply, inelegantly, jaw working but no further sound coming out.  

 

 _Wow.    just_ …… _Wow_. 

 

The Stealth suit is….unbelievable.

 

You’ve seen the vids of course.  The epic elevator fight.  The Lemurian Star footage.  Enough to know that he looks somehow fiercer clad that way. Lethal.  Efficient.  But the sight in real life, well that is way, way more impressive.   There’s no circus-big-top, eye-distracting, straight up slashes of red of white to cut the line--nothing to distract from endless blue below his ocean eyes, the ripple of his abs or the perfect Aristotelean geometry of hips to shoulder girth.

 

Gorgeous.

 

One slightly drunken Stark cocktail party, two months of baseball/dinner dates and one week of frenzied epic sex have not prepared you for the reality. It is one thing to be tucked under the blankets with 6 feet 2 of serumed golden muscle; it is quite another to see all of it wrapped up in the jawdroppingly sexy uniform of a living legend.  

 

Your mouth runs dry and you have to cough before you can try to speak.   “Uhmm…”      

 

Steve follows your gaze straight to the star upon his chest, looks down then up, raises one blond eyebrow.  “Something wrong?  Don’t you like it?” 

 

 _Like it?_   You lick your lips.  You don’t just like it you want to crawl inside it and roll around.  It’s catnip.  It’s Christmas and New Years all rolled into one and it just might be the hottest thing you’ve ever seen him in, including his own birthday suit.    

 

There is, sadly, no time to take it off…   

 

“No Steve…I…”  you begin but before you can finish he flashes that trademark sassy smile.  Acres of perfectly snug kevlar ripple as he bends down —slowly—to pick up his helmet and shield, faux-innocently affording you an unimpeded view of how the suit perfectly hugs his ass.

 

You don’t think you groan out loud but perhaps you do.  Suddenly Erksine’s masterpiece malfunctions—Steve’s fingers fumble on the straps, it takes waaay too long for him to catch his grip.  He straightens up, flips the shield into its holster and fixes you with a thousand yard stare.  

 

“Don’t wanna be seen with me?” he finally drawls, low and teasing, in the caramel-warm voice that’s just for you.  “You can always switch and go with Nat..” 

The teasing shit!  Now he really isn’t playing fair.  This is one of the surprising things you have discovered about the oh-so-honest man behind the shield.  One on one, in person, Steve Rogers has a wickedly dry sense of humour and he loves to tease—to prod, and poke. Make you _react_.    

 

Like a perfect martini it is dry and intoxicating and a little sweet at once.   And hits you when you least expect it. 

 

You cross your arms across your chest and pointedly glare at his left ear, ignoring the smile that creeps, Sphinx-like, across his seductive lips.   Steven Grant Rogers is now playing with fire and he knows it.  Irish fire.  Both of you:  oil and denser oil instead of oil and water; both tawny skin and freckles; absolute certainty that you are right and god dammit never backing down.    

 

As if you’d dump the chance to work in the field with him.  You are an agent; highly trained and cool under pressure; about to head out for your first joint SHIELD/Avengers mission.  Oh he knows _exactly_ what the sight of him is doing to you but no way are you going let all that blue and silver and rugged leather entirely short out your mental circuitry.   

 

All’s fair-- in love and war and trash-talking, as Barton says.

 

You set your shoulders back and lift your chin, green eyes flashing above the faintest of telltale smirks.  “Fine by me Steve….if you think you need to keep Bucky close to you for backup…”

 

He blinks at the burn for just a second before throwing his head back in a full on body laugh.  “Good one y/n, but nope.  No need.   I would never deprive Natasha of her bud.”   

 

Bucky and Natasha are a _thing_ , almost as new as you and Steve.  It’s awesome, a delicate confluence of two deserving universes and you have both vowed to do everything you can to support its fragile growth.  

 

Even if that means sacrificing the carefully maintained red line between your professional and personal life.  Working side by side with this bossy, romantic sap.  

 

 _Yeah… right.  Sacrifice._   

 

You grin while you pull down own your own suit cuffs, check your kit and resettle your hip belt, doing your best not to acknowledge the full body flush that is now spreading furtively, like a thief, up your throat and past your cheeks.  Wrist comm-check.  Gun and throwing knives-check and check.   Climbing cleats stowed but ready to put on.  This is infiltration, not a go-in-guns-blazing op.  Just your style.  You’re an ‘intelligence’ specialist, a white hat hacker who took the extra training and never looked back. wreaking havoc on illicit systems everywhere.  The IP address for Paracelsus—No. 1 on SHIELD’s most wanted list—has just been found.   You have to get in, disable his algorithims, his database and experiments, get out before anyone wises up.   It’s a big deal.  A very big deal and the last thing you want to do is not be utterly and completely perfect.  

 

Steve catches your gaze and nods, suddenly gone all serious.  Something in his face has shifted—he’s in Cap mode, checking the status of his team, encouraging by his very solidness and the reassurance makes you let out a long slow breath.  You’re going to need every tool and trick at your formidable disposal to get into Paracelsus’s system once you pounce, swift and secret, and make it to the inner sanctum.  Just a few dozen guards should pose no problem—  Steve and Buck and Nat can take care of _them_.  You will take care of wiping out the server and its wider botnet, ensuring he cannot pull a Zola:  no escaping with the files this time.        

 

You shudder, inwardly.  The man is a monster.  The man _creates_ monsters.  Rumours of mutant half man-half megafauna, insane and uncontrollable, appear to be real.   Fury’s report suggests all the ‘children’ born of his bastard cocktail serums garnished with Ice Age DNA have died—before they could be unleashed.  Thank god,   Just the threat of what he was madly trying makes this urgent.  Paracelsus must not succeed…or get away to ‘create’ again.

 

‘Ready?”  Steve pulls his helmet and snaps the chin strap in place. 

 

You pat your sidearm one last time. Toss the end of your braid you’ve been nervously fiddling across your other shoulder.  “Yes sir!”  You mock salute, trying to lighten up the leaden feeling in your stomach.  _Come on iron butterflies settle down._  Something isn’t right but you can’t quite put your finger on it.  Call it Celtic intuition but you have the oddest feeling about the day.    _Focus Y/N._   The best way to deal with happenstance is to fall back on your training.  Concentrate on the here and now.    

 

You breathe deep and take one last look around the space.  The breakfast dishes are stacked in the sink and the perishables are put away.   Mr. Neat has already made the bed and you’ve taken your civvies to your room.  Last night was the fifth in a row that you’ve slept at Steve’s.  The thorned rose-delicate question of quite what ‘you’ both are and where you are both going must wait.    

 

The blue lasers of Steve’s eyes hold you for a longer moment.  They darken, just the barest tinge of worry flickering on through before they melt, become Caribbean lagoon instead of Greenland iceberg. 

 

_Nope..nothing here.  No worry.  No pesky nerves…  It’s just the suit.  It’s enough to rattle anyone._

 

Captain America nods thoughtfully and slow, motions to the door and like a perfect gentlemen, opens it for you. 

 

“Move out soldier…” 

 

You duck underneath his arm and out into the day.


	2. Chapter 2

The trip to the secret lab is short, same continent, if not same country.  Above the rolling prairie grassland the skies are blue and high—visibility 5 miles—perfect  conditions: for you to see the target and for them to see you.  Hawkeye sets the cloaked Quinjet down behind a small rise about a quarter mile away, close as he dares but not too close:  surprise is all important to this mission. 

 

You stand with Buck and Nat behind Steve’s hulking form upon the ramp.  On his cue  you depress the switch on Tony’s newest toy,  feel the low hum and see the bluish glow of the personal radar shield envelope you.  For just under thirty minutes you will all be invisible to radar and camera both:  just enough time to sneak up on the faded yellow farm house and barns that lie unsuspecting, drenched by spring sunshine.  The spread is incongruously small for an evil lair but that was perhaps the point.  Ignorable.  Miles out of town and on the surface part of a sprawling  cattle ranch; while inside it is much like Hank Pym’s home: hiding secrets few know about. 

 

“Watch out for the groundhogs.  I hear they’re vicious.”  Clint warns wryly, peering out at the foxtail and bottle sedge.  You catch the faint drone of bees and what might be the praire dog’s distinctive whistle.  Bucky huffs and rolls his eyes.   It does look innocuous-even idyllic- straight out of ‘Who has Seen the Wind?” but you’ve all had the briefing.  ‘Circle K’’s state of the art, modern shed design hides the entrance to a warren of underground laboratories, cells and tanks—and the heart of Paracelsus’s mad plans.    

 

Stage 1 takes no time.  Bucky reaches the hanger first and disables the helicopter they do not bother to hide-modern cowhands have such fancy toys—while Nat silently secures the ‘hands” and the perimeter, efficient, fast—and silent as a ghost..      Time now is of the essence.  You follow Steve… let him deal with the human threats while you focus on finding the hidden central portal.  Of course it is set in the main beef freezer—through a maze of hanging carcasses you find the plate…run the leaked disable sequence and breathe a sigh when a slight hiss of air shows you are through. 

 

“Access open,”  you murmur into your comm and then Stage 2 begins.  Bucky and Nat and Steve fan outward, ‘neutralizing’ the startled opposition while you prowl the corridors,  slipping shadow to shadow,  checking with your ‘whiskers”: Stark tech that grants you superhearing.  Somewhere there will be the hum of supercomputing.   Ahead you hear a thunk and a sixth set of ‘guards’ in jeans and Wrangler shirts goes down.    

 

“Y/N, over here..”  Through a heavily locked (but easily hacked) reinforced access door Steve has found another corridor.  This one looks promising—all along one side are flat metal doors watched by cameras and fitted with observation slits, obviously holding pens for something but your whiskers hear nothing: the imposing bank is eerily silent and deserted.   You train your other essential gizmo on the first… the Starkcorder shows no heat signal, no sign of life, and “Negative Agent” pipes into your comm in Jarvis’s cultured tones.  A relief-but to be sure you pull your gun and peer through the slit. Nothing.  It’s empty but for an odd ochre smudge upon the floor.  

 

 You hasten past more dark empty cells and find that a few show signs of former habitation –chains as thick as a man’s forearm, ratty mattresses, what might be a mangled metal tray.  The last is different.   The hulk of filthy matted, leopard spotted fur upon the grey concrete  makes you draw in a breath.  Steve, ahead and alert to any sign of unfriendlies, draws closer, Shield poised; makes a comforting presence as you scan the cell as you’d been taught.  Still no evidence of life.    _The latest failure?_  you wonder and your stomach flips queasily.  The thing is massive—easily eight feet long and broad.   Below the fur are what look like humongous human calves.  And four inch claws.    _Yikes_.  Somehow you doubted this creature would have auditioned for ‘Beauty and the Beast’.  Thank god it’s suffering is over.

 

Steve looks equally relieved as he peers around the next corner, raises his hand comm.   “Buck, status?” 

 

“House secure,” comes the low responding crackle and you and Steve share a grin.  The feral joy of bashing Hydra is almost audible in Bucky’s words.  “Few dozen inert idiots.” 

 

 _Inert_.  You know that means knocked out—Bucky doesn’t kill people anymore-- but Natasha has no such qualms.  It’s a toss-up as to what shape they’re in.   “Same here, “ Steve replies.   “Make your way to the portal now, We’re getting close.  Some of the cowboys have body armour.”   

 

You raise your gun straight up at your shoulder. The observation is sobering but fits with intelligence you had.  Paraselsus’ henchmen routinely wear tac gear.  For the threats to the laboratory from within _and_ out.        

 

You creep left, weight forward on your feet, sweeping the adjacent doors with the ‘corder.   Twice you whisper ‘Here.”  and twice you and Steve scare the shit out of some poor white-coated assistant dweeb  when the empty ‘air” literally picks them up.   They wind up knocked cold or ziptied to the furniture.   

 

One, more amenable than the rest, answers when you coerce his kidneys with your knee.

 

“Where is Paracelsus?” you hiss, pulling hard on his arms a second time.  The man is gibbering, terrified by the unseen enemy but finally pulls his words together.   “End of the corridor..” he gasps..  “Please…please….” but you don’t stay long enough to hear him out.  Steve’s already out the door and pelting warp speed down the tiles.

 

Cue Stage 3: the race to pin down Hydra’s latest megalomaniac biochemist because by now what little noise you’ve made and the ruckus from Buck and Nat have the cosplay cowboy guards and lab coats alerted and putting up a fight.  

 

“Take cover!”  Steve hollers, rushing them with his Shield raised up.    The guards can’t see what they are going after but they shoot wildly, desperate and freaked out.  A spray of bullets lifts a white geyser of plaster from beside your cheek.   You shrink back farther behind a Fort Knox-heavy door watching Chambrey and Stetsons and bullets fly, the former bouncing, very ungently, off the shield.  

 

When you both finally near the last bland white rectangle, an equally bland, spectacled, Walter Mitty-type charges out guns blazing.   

 

 _This is the villain who named himself after a man who believed there was no separation between Man and God?_ you think, blinking in surprise.  Rumpled Goldman Sachs accountant is the more look but you lean out, getting off a couple of  quick shots just as Steve’s furious  “Oh no you don’t.”  echoes down the hall.    One almost balletic barrel roll later, he has his target down, broken glasses askew and hands behind his back.

 

“Running like a rat from a sinking ship,” Steve growls, giving his captive a solid shake.  “Except I don’t want to insult the rat.  They have empathy.  And morals.” 

 

Paraselsus gets no chance for a witty comeback.  His mouth is sealed by tape that is secreted somewhere in the suit. 

 

“Go, Y/N.”  Steve jerks his head toward the open room.  By now his shields are dimming, the blue glow flickers like rain about his shoulders and you don’t need further encouragement , your shield must be fading too.  No time to waste.   There are other Hydra cells to the north.  Best not let them have time to investigate.

 

You slip inside the brightly lit space, cover the room with one finger on the trigger. senses on high alert for any aberration.  The white light from LEDs overhead and pulsing blue from a dozen giant monitors assures you this is the space.  Bank after bank of terminals rise in tiers about the room like some kind of bizarre electric choir.  Observation feeds show a familiar scene—the filthy, empty cells and the one deserted corpse.   The room’s only other occupant cowers wide-eyed in his seat. 

 

He’s obviously pissed himself and is shaking too hard to get a handle on his nearby gun.

 

“Shouldn’t a had that second cup of coffee.”  You smirk and clock him hard across the head with the barrel of your gun.   Peace to get to work.  Fingers flying across a holoboard, you settle to it, not bothering to turn around when you hear Steve’s chuckle as he inspects your handiwork. 

 

This job is more brute force than subtle:  hack in, replicate and disable.  The scientist  groans weakly and by the time Steve has effectively tied and dumped him like a discarded punching bag onto the floor, you’ve found it.  There is no back door but thankfully no logic bomb and your super secret SHIELD rootkit works a dream:   you watch reams of code unfurl in virtual 3D.  You know exactly what you are doing, adjust when a roadblock hits and reroute;  no pressure, but this needs to work. Sweat trickles down your neck. 

 

“I’m in!”   Your body buzzes with excitement and the last juice off the radar screen.  Second by second you open and sweep away new windows…type code and hit send over and over until the massive system-choking tapeworm is all set.    “Let’s hope this works…” you mumble as Steve hovers anxiously over your shoulder.  Parts are like nothing you’ve seen before although the backbone isn’t foreign.  You click the final screen.  A bright bullseye of words contracts in the air before…. “3..2..1…”

 

Suddenly the banks of terminals all go dark.

 

 “Yes!”  You shake your fist, elated. 

 

“Great job.  Fantastic Y/N! ”   

 

You beam with pride at Steve but there is no time to party…Stage 4 mop up and skedaddle has now officially begun. 

 

“Buck we got him…data is blown.”   

 

“Are blown, professor.  Data are blown.” 

 

You snicker.  Bucky won’t miss an opportunity to piss Steve off- they’re just like brothers, constantly competing and almost think like twins sometimes.  You stick your tongue out at the glare Steve shoots your way.    

 

He shakes his head at the idiocacy of the universe.  “What Barnes? You talking back to a superior officer?” 

 

“Yup.” drawls Bucky.  “That is me _correcting_ a superior officer.”

 

“Status update Sergeant!”   Steve barks in his best ‘don’t fuck with me’ commanding voice, although the twinkle in his eyes kind of ruins the effect, and you melt, just a little, trying to pretend the pink in your cheeks is from a lack of 60 sunscreen, not a sudden image of him, all firm and towering in navy, directing you;  exactly how he wants.

 

 _Sure…_   _Focus…Y/N,  Focus._ _Mission isn’t over._

 

Nat’s reply brings you back.  “Perimeter and lower tiers secure.  All threats accounted for and neutralized, ”   You can almost hear the sound of Bucky snorting in the background, probably doubled over and killing himself.  

 

“Copy.  Meet you outside for pickup with the target.”   Once you’ve lifted off with the prisoner local authorities will take over, and though you’re chuckling inwardly at the image of some Mountie in red serge being the one to respond, it’s  JTF2—local special ops—who will be the ones to deal.  They’re set, ready to swoop in once Clint gives the sign. 

 

Mission accomplished.   Not too many minutes later you are back outside, have left Paraselsus trussed like a turkey with Bucky and Nat beside the lilacs at the porch, and checked out the other buildings.  Hen house is clear, garage, silos.. everything accounted for.     

 

Steve radios to Clint.   “We’re out…Come on down and tell the cavalry they can mop up”    

 

“Paracelsus..?”

 

“In hand.  Or I should say under web.  Black Widow has him.”

 

“Roger.  Sit tight for a second Cap.  There’s been a delay.” 

 

Clint sounds frazzled and Steve frowns up in the direction of the knoll.  You don’t want to hang for too long.  It’s a delicate diplomatic issue—the locals need to arrive just _after_ you’ve skedaddled with the target.  Otherwise they have to arrest him for themselves.  In a country with an unhelpful extradition treaty.    “Don’t tell me you’ve got a flat?”

 

“Nope,”  There’s  a loud snort overtop of aborted engine whine.  “Hydraulic surge.  Jarvis is running diagnostic.  It’s likely nothing but give us a kip.”

 

“I’m not pushin’ you to the gas station again.”   

 

“Yeah Steve…Love you too.”

 

Steve shrugs at the sudden change of plans and lets the rest in the on the fun.  “Nat, wheels up in a kip.” 

 

“Got it.”  She sounds resigned.  A kip is Avenger’s slang for nap length—30 minutes.  Should be ok.  You’ve cut off communication with the Hydra mothership and by now they’ve figured everything is blown.  No way they will venture near. 

 

Steve leans back against the painted tin of the generator shed, turns his face up toward the sun. His slow smile is like bright noon above the deepest midnight of the suit. Like you, he’s keyed up, thrilled that things went well, brain still whirling fast from dozens of split-second choices, high on residual adrenaline.

 

Uh oh…you know that grin, you think, just as he looks askance…   

 

‘Steve…!”  you squeal as a pair of strong arms slide around your waist and pull you close against that muscled chest.   

 

“We’ve not had this chance before.”  he murmurs, lips pressing at first softly and then more hungrily, against your neck, asking a question you’re not sure you’re equipped to ask.   Is he?  _Really??_   _Out here?_    Your brain wants to protest but oh dear god but you love the suit…Cap’s perfect lines, the inhuman hip to shoulder ratio, and then it dawns on you, the suit would be even would be more gorgeous pulled halfway down.  

 

 _Jesus.Mary and Joseph.  How can you resist that thought?_   With a growl of need you twine your fingers into blond sunshine and tug, hard, upward, to capture his perfect pillowed lips.  “Think twenty minutes could be enough?” 

 

“Y/N.”  Steve moans and the sound sends liquid fire to short circuit every neuron in your brain.  You are both flipping buckles and straps; hands flying, stroking everywhere, desperate to touch free skin even as your lips barely part.  It’s fast and furious, a little wild and oh so good.  Steve flips you both; you’re up against the heated metal of the wall, shoulders and back a little scorched, legs around his waist, acres of blue uniform resting precariously about his hips and reinforced Stark weave rubbing against your butt. 

His mouth descends again on yours, hard and almost bruising, hot tongue plundering, fingers digging into your skin.  You… can’t… wait.  Either of you.  His kisses alone have made you wet and you clutch harder at his shoulders, needing every inch from pecs to cock pressed tight for the friction that quixotically only makes your insides twist still harder.   

 

“Ready baby?”  You nod and gasp, see tiny stars at the edges of your vision as his heavy velvet warmth suddenly burns you up from inside.  So full, so good---Steve shifts to hold you with just one hand, the other snakes round front to wedge firmly against your clit, fingers circling, calling fire from the triangle of your curls in time with every thrust.  _Oh god._ The sweet torture coils low in your belly and slithers up your spine. He is gasping and rocking, fingers dug hard enough to mark your ass as you tremble and hang on to his lips and shoulders with equal desperation.  It’s ridiculous and risky—part of you wants to laugh but his kisses are too distracting:  wild, open mouthed.  Warmth floods through your cunt and Steve pants, eyes closed, focused on your rising keen; thrusting faster and harder until you feel you might split apart.  

 

 “Y/N.”   At his sudden aching groan you shudder and come undone, clenching hard around his pulsing cock until you sag, dizzy and little boneless;  smiling at the meltingly tender butterfly kisses that pepper your throat and cheeks. 

 

 “ _Steve…”_   You both float down off that incredible soaring high, forehead to forehead, panting,  and you marvel  how this has become your life.   It is not just the sex—it is an honour to safeguard this treasure’s heart— to make Steve happy, share your pleasure in each other and though you know this is new and fragile you do not want it to ever end… The rational part of your brain knows this is improbable—he is his country’s first—but perhaps…maybe.   You shake your head. 

 

 _Do not jinx it Y/N._    Words said not aloud cannot be grabbed by Murphy and twisted into nightmares.   

 

With a last kiss and hungry tug on Steve’s lower lip you sigh and both begin to right your suits, giggly and a little giddy…  The shield is slung back in place.  You stand nestled against his chest, rub face against the silver star and begin to pull away when Steve grabs for your wrist, holds it tight.

 

 “Baby, we’ve got to..”  you begin before looking up.   You freeze.   Something about the building storm in ocean blue amidst the stillness of his face makes you switch, instantly, to _alert_.   His super hearing has picked up a sound.   A fake cowboy?  An animal?   You look up, frowning.  “What Cap?”  You listen.  The sound comes again but closer now.  It’s a heavy, muffled thud, as if something pliant but substantial is tossed against the packed dirt of the yard.  “A guard?” But there are no guards left to toss stuff.  Unless you’ve missed one  actually out on range and late to the party?

 

“No.”  Steve suddenly shushes you with a hand against your lips and shakes his head.  

 

“Something’s moving.”

 

“Something big.”

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Holy shit!  Where did that come from?!”  

“I don’t know, but I’m not waiting around for its calling card.   Stay back, “ Steve orders.  The shield comes off his back and grimly he signals you to call in.  

_ It _ has come into view and it’s not happy. With anything.

“Clint, Buck!  We have a situation here! ” you frantically whisper into the comm.    

“What?! Were?!”  comes the double echo.  

“West entrance!!  Smaller shed!”  

The next five minutes play out as if life runs on double time; way too fast and not yet fast enough.   It’s a lurid accident that happens in an eyeblink and yet a nightmare from which you can’t wake up.  Both and neither all at once and equally horrific..  

The creature that has lumbered into the yard throws aside the ‘snack’ it had been considering and leaps toward your hiding place.   It’s huge, taller than Thor and twice as muscled, with dark tufts of fur on upright ears and a shaggy, spotted dirty coat that looks more lion than leopard.  In its long face a pair of fangs glint, wet and bloody, like wicked tiny swords and its massive forepaws are armed with twelve curving scimitars.  Half man-half _sabre-toothed tiger?_  Images of Clan of the Cave Bear swirl through your mind but it’s like nothing currently on earth:  inhumanly strong, covering an unholy amount of ground, and smart: a feral intelligence glints in dark golden eyes.    

Steve launches the shield straight at it but the creature leaps as if it has rockets on its feet, deftly dodging before a second toss takes the Shield straight to the gut.  It doesn’t even flinch.  Steve dives, rolls, retrieves the Shield and tries for a head shot, only to have the thing catch the vibranium right between its rapier teeth.   Oh lord… it moves insanely fast, before you can blink the mountain of tawny fur surges forward snarling, bloody foam flying from its mouth, to grab Steve round the waist.

“No!”  you scream. Fuck Cap’s order- you charge out of your hiding space, line up and squeeze off a shot at point blank range;  heart plummeting and jerking sideways when the bullet ricochets right back.     _What the hell?_   The thing is armoured underneath the fur?!!    Jesus Christ.. it’s got the skin of a mini hulk!  The monster has Steve caught in a bear hug—attacking the vulnerable part on any adversary: the neck and back— its face (and those vicious teeth) is hunched so far down over its prey you cannot get a clear shot at the weakest point—its  eye– without risking hitting Steve.  Frantically you empty the chamber into every other tender point that you can see—neck, low back, under the arm- but nothing penetrates, the muzzle velocity is not enough.  

Time for plan B.   Acting before you can second guess yourself, you grab your knife from its sheath and leap, high up as you can go onto its heaving back, clambering, choking on the musky stench of fur and slime, reaching for its eye but your arm is not long enough.

_ No!! _   You stab frantically at its face, but it is like a drunk stabbing someone sober with a  swizzle stick. Annoying but ineffectual.   With a furious roar  the creature throws you off.  You land hard on the dirt, the wind knocked out of your lungs for precious seconds and in that time it gets its claws about Steve’s throat.  He’s fighting, hard; face straining and hands prying at its forearm, stamping and kicking at its lower legs, bashing with all his strength to break the creature’s grip but nothing gives.  

“Y/N! Rifle. ” Steve gasps out.    

Of course!   _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ why didn’t you grab one from a downed guard?!  More force..better chance to do some damage.  

“Natasha!”  

You yell this into the comm as you run, reach the half-ripped side barn door where a still warm, battered body lies across the threshold.  The man’s leather chaps are clawed to shreds and his face is bloody pulp.   You swallow down the bile that rises, tell yourself to ‘get a grip’.. you’ve done this before, this isn’t your first rodeo.  Steve needs help, _you_ need to help and now…  

One steadying breath before you call again.   “Bucky! 

“Coming doll!”  

The dead man’s Hydra issue is warm under your hand.   You race as if Cyberbus himself is on your tail, nearly colliding with Bucky when the sight and sound brings you both skidding to a stop.  A high horrific growl rises above Steve’s shuddering wheeze– his nostrils flare, sucking in every scrap of oxygen, even as he hits wildly out at the creature’s ribs.  

It clutches harder.  

The creature is choking the life out of Steve and there is no time.  

“Брось его прямо сейчас!”  At a sickening popping sound Nat becomes a blur, a black and red fury with its legs wrapped around the monster’s neck; blue electricity dances down its chest and face but her stingers make no impression. She beats its head, kicks, tries to set a garrotte wire but there is no give, nothing seems to work and then, just for a second,  the creature breaks its grip to fling her, the pesky irritant,  through the air.   That is enough. Bucky swings into action.   Between one heartbeat and the next he fires, unloads his rifle into the creature’s side because no way he is gonna risk pumping lead into Steve (again).  It howls, the pain makes it angrier and you see with a sick clench of your stomach that most of the bullets bounce right off.  A few must penetrate because the mucous that flings right and left off its fangs and slicks Steve’s shoulders, is now tinged a darker red.  It’s a start–   Bucky grabs the shield from off the dirt, bashes at its arms, trying to break the cage of its claws enough for Steve to breathe.

“Bu…..ck….”  The horrible gargling wheeze is far too faint.

“Hang on Rogers I am busy saving you!”  

He’s trying to; slamming its arms and back and head with the shield while you and Nat stab at its sides and flank but nothing makes it break its hold on Steve…It’s too strong.  And too determined.   Steve’s arms that scrabbled for purchase now clench in the dirty fur, his eyes glazed and far away.  

You need another way…  

“Bucky your knife!”   Bless all the saints and little angels Bucky gets it. He launches up with his supersoldier strength and grabs the thing in a headlock that would make WWF proud.  The metal arm glints in the sun as he reaches up around, plunges the blade into the creature’s eye and keeps on going, driving it so far back the handle isn’t visible..  

The monster staggers back.  Bucky drops and rolls as it drops its quarry to paw frantically at its face, howling high pitched and almost human, blood pouring in a red waterfall across flat, leonine, angry features..  

All of a sudden a shadow blocks the sun.  

“Fall back!!”

You throw yourself across Steve’s head and back just as Clint unleashes the Quinjet’s laser cannon.  Arcs of red fire nail the monster square in the chest—again and again, before at last it jerks, brokenly, crumples into a singed, bloodied heap.   You hear the sharp staccato of gunfire and look up to see Nat, her face is a map of hardened lines, unloading the entire magazine of your assault rifle into its ruined head. 

_ Oh yes _ , exactly what you want to do but now other training and instinct takes over from the fight.

“Steve.. Steve…”     There is so much shredded skin. So much blood. Almost no blue left on the shoulders of the suit.   Somewhere Clint is calmly calling for medevac: _“Looks bad Tony..get a med team on standby!”_   It’s all happened way too fast; a blur.   ‘ABC’  your slow moving brain supplies…   _Airway, Breathing, Circulation._  Steve is pale, going into shock, wheezing horribly but well enough that his bitten lips are pink–no tinge of blue.  You lay him on his side, pull a space age silver emergency blanket out of your kit and try to assess.  You’ve got to staunch the bleeding.  There is so much, you’re frantic; worrying that a claw has nicked the artery in his neck, but no.  The cut is deep but it doesn’t gush lurid poppy with each heartbeat.  He has fainted, passed out from the pain, pulse hammering in his wrist, too fast, but almost steady.

There are so many wounds. You tear back the ruined suit, trying to see which of them is worst.

“Y….”  Steve’s eyelids flutter for a second.  

“Ssshh.  Don’t try to talk.”  You gentle your fingers through his mucous-matted hair and keep pressure on the largest pad of gauze.  Two deep gouges run down his shoulder to below his ribs and bleed profusely, jagged punctures seep in some sort of horrific necklace around his neck and below his clavicle.  Nothing else looks too vital but amidst the mess it’s hard to see….  

“M’am.  M’am?”

Someone you don’t recognize armed with a black box much larger than a standard issue first aid kit kneels beside you and gently clutchies at your arm.   There is a little red and white flag on his tan camo uniform and he’s talking into an ear comm.  

 “ _Subject semi-alert, blunt force and stabbing trauma …_ ”   

You sit back, push stray hair out of your eyes and suddenly realize your little squad is not alone.   Nat is farther off directing Clint to land.  Bucky has tied the creature up with metal cable like he’s doing kinbaku because he’s clearly unwilling to trust _anything_ ,   The yard is _swarming_ ;  Clint called in the local special ops and dust kicks up from the many jeeps and hovering Cyclones.   

A second fresh-faced soldier drops to Steve’s other side and flashes you a sympathetic half-smile.   “It’s ok…We’re JTF2. Medics.”  

It’s meant to be reassuring but you don’t know them and this is _your_ Steve and they don’t know him…and..

“It’s ok. They got him,”  Bucky’s strong arms pull you up out of  the dirt. “He’s gonna be alright.  You know him. It’s good. The serum’s strong. ”  

Buck’s words sound firmer than his tone.  You’re shaking slightly, he rubs his large hands reassuring up and down your arms but before too long it becomes a full on rolling tremor. What if Steve loses too much blood?  What if his lungs collapse?  What if the thing has crushed his ribs?  

“Y/N.”   Your legs want to buckle but two sets of fingers, one cool and metal, the other warm and flesh, clasp around your chest.  “He’s gonna be ok.”  The Brooklyn twang is strong.  You sag into its comfort.   An oxygen mask now covers Steve’s pale face and some of the shallower cuts are already scabbing over.   _Bless you Erskine._  Steve will heal, faster than any mortal, even if he’s had the life half-choked out of him.  You don’t care that you are crying, tears raining hot salt through the dirt and blood smeared on your cheeks.  They taste, you taste, of that awful musk.

It is in that crystal liquid moment that the ripple in the pond expands…

This is it. You know it with exquisite clarity. This is the moment that made you nervous although you didn’t _know_ it until right now.   This exact position.  Hovering over Steve. Gravel still biting in your back and knees.   Sobbing with a mix of anxiety and relief.. Bucky’s anxious arms around you and his worried gaze beside.   The stench of cordite and animal and blood.  

You remember… now.  

Irish intuition.  It’s a dammed blessing and a curse.  


	4. Chapter 4

“Agent if you apologize one more time I’m gonna rip out _your_ vocal chords.”

“Director.  Sir.”

“Y/N,  it… _is_.. _not_.. _your… fault_!”

It is a measure of everyone’s concern that Fury has left the Potomac.  In the middle of the busy hospital corridor he abruptly turns on his heel, fixes you with the glare that has reduced Presidents to dust and sighs.  

You skid to a stop just before you do the unthinkable and caroom into your boss.

“But Sir I should have noticed.  The cell..  the… ”

He cuts your words with a sharp hand chop.   You stand, fists balled at your sides, an island about to be assailed by a building thundercloud, immovable while the endless stream of Shield Med and its denizens flows around you like a busy river.  This conversation has continued for two staircases and an entire surgical ward.   You are almost back to where you began. Outside Steve’s room, exhausted  and upset.

Nothing the Director has said so far can penetrate the wall of guilt.

“He almost…”

“I _know_.” Fury runs his hand over his bald head and looks a little softer; more peeved porcupine than full on bear.    He doesn’t articulate what are you both thinking.

Lost.  Captain America almost _lost_.  

You follow him the last few steps into the observation anteroom.  Too many people in scrubs hover over Steve’s still form upon the gurney.  The oxygen mask has been swapped out for a cannula and at least now you can see his face: eyes closed, drifting in and out of consciousness; the great grey smudges of exhaustion and the lurid red claw marks plain on his cheeks.

Fury leans against the glass and frowns, brows drawn together thoughtfully.   “Jesuz that was close.  What a clusterfuck.   That thing was practically a mini Hulk.”  

Clusterfuck.  Indeed it is. Like most failures it’s a concatenation of many smaller things..  Incomplete intelligence.   A laser focus on a particular mission part.  Technology failure.

The creature had been the dirty pile of fur seemingly dead on the floor of the final cell.  However can you get past that fact?  You scanned it.  Took the remote data as gospel truth, did not confirm and Steve is the one who paid.   The reality of it makes you almost sick. You breathe hard, feel the sweat of echoed panic trickle down your neck and a pounding rise in your head.   Too close. Over in the room, one nurse takes a blood sample while another adjusts the flow rate on an IV.  A bright eyed resident in a ponytail  methodically stitches the worst of the gashes shut.  Against the far corner wall from where all threats can be anticipated, Bucky stands, arms crossed and black suit half grey with dirt.  The Director’s sudden debrief was most assuredly his idea.  You saw Buck’s look of concern at your frenetic pacing.  The team had needed space to work and you were wearing a path in the linoleum.  

Too bad it hadn’t helped so much.

“The cages appeared empty and nothing registered.”   You drop your head and chew your lip, running the puzzle round, unable to let it go.  How could Stark’s toy malfunction?   How did the thing escape its cell? And more importantly, what mattered most?  Again you mentally replay the pure adrenaline rush after you secure the base. Distracted.   Both of you.  And because of that the thing had time to get outside.  It tortures you but there is not enough the courage in the world for you to admit to Fury (yet) what had happened beside the shed.  

“I repeat: it was not your fault.”  Fury’s warning rumble echoes from just inside the door.  “The creature was in hibernation.  Dead to the ‘corder’s  sensors. Did Paracelsus know the commotion would wake it up?  So I assume:  he hit the release switch on the locks before he made his break.”    He glances over and catches your surprised gaze.  “Forensics will go to town on it.  But the important thing is that you neutralized the greater threat.  Your coding worked.  There is no sign any data got away.”

 _Data!_  In all the commotion you forgot that you had made a copy before you set the bomb.   You pull a small flat memory key from your chest pocket and place it on Fury’s outstretched palm.  “The bot net is flushed and primaries scrubbed but every piece that has been sanitized is copied here.  Including the sequenced DNA.”

A  black eyebrow flies straight up.  “Never thought we’d recover live sequence for something older than Steve.  I’ll have to go speak to the anthropologists, paleontologists or whatever they call themselves.”

You turn away, distracted by the sudden squawk of a machine.  The loaded maypole of an IV stand chimes an alarm and you tense, laying your hand on the glass until you hear a nurse’s rueful ‘ _batterie_ s.”   _Oh thank god_.  Over by the far window you see Bucky’s similarly startled shoulders settle down an inch.

“Y/N. Get back in there and take care of your boyfriend before my headache gets a headache.”

You whirl, but not fast enough; catch only a flash of retreating leather before Natasha takes Fury’s place.  She holds three coffee cups balanced on her palm and somehow looks fresher than one has a right to be after a day from pure hell.  

“Close your mouth,  младшая сестра.”  

“How did he?”  you sputter. “It’s only been a week?!”

Nat shrugs expressively as she passes you two cups, takes your elbow and steers you to the door.  “He hears and knows everything.  You have to get used to that.”  

Of course he does.  Welcome to the Avengers’ bubble.  By virtue of your association with a national icon (and asset, you think ruefully) there will be very little now that stays private in your world.  You’re becoming used to Jarvis’ constant vigilance but there will be more: Clint dropping down out of the ceiling in the middle of conversations;  Tony’s ADHD waltzing in unannounced to show off some new thing.  It is part of why Steve took so long to move past the casual dating phase.  He wants you to clearly see what you might be getting in for.  The irregular schedules.  Late nights alone.  A sudden overwhelming pile of quasi-family.  

He took it slow because he _cares_ —needs what you have to last.    And so do you.  

That little nugget of newfound truth punches you suddenly in the gut.    It wouldn’t be so hard to see him hurt if you didn’t want him to hold your heart.  

“Hey.”  

You stand blinking at the revelation in the brighter light of the examination room as Bucky steps carefully around the gurney to relieve you of your burden.  The space is tight but for the moment no member of the team appears poised to kick you out.   The flurry of initial  investigation has passed: scans showed no major trauma to Steve’s kidneys or his spine; his lungs are clear; broken ribs and lacerated throat will mend,   There is final stitching left to do and with that you’re learning how tricky it is deal with supersoldier metabolism.  Some wounds will be days away from healing, others have already almost closed.  It is a bit like a detective puzzle understanding exactly how he’s hurt:  the evidence vanishes before your eyes.  

Buck takes a cautious sip from his cup and bumps his shoulder gently against yours.   “Caramel macchiato.  Don’t tell Stevie.  He’ll want his own.”  

“ _Already know.”_   

Both of you jump at the broken raspy whisper and little of your plain flat white splashes on the floor.  Steve’s on his side, face and lips almost as drained of colour as the sheet draped across his hips; eyes closed and, you had assumed, asleep.  

“Seriously, dude?  And how?”

Steve tries to shrug at Bucky’s incredulous tone but just manages what could be taken for grimace.  “ _Smell_.”

Of course.  The super senses are still firing.  You can’t help yourself;  respectful distance can go take a hike, and so you hover by the gurney’s nearer end, reaching out to smooth one finger across Steve’s furrowed brow.  He looks in pain. Why haven’t they got that nailed down yet?

“Sshhh, Steve. Don’t try to talk.”    

“ _Hey babe._ ”   He nuzzles his face closer to your hand, sighing as your finger dances carefully between the clawed racing stripes.  You want to do more but don’t want to get entirely in the way, so you stand, trying to let a feeling of hopeful peace seep through.  

“ _So gl-gl…”_   You press your finger hurriedly to Steve’s lips and look back, catching Bucky’s gaze.  His worried frown is almost a mirror of your own; it’s been a long time since Steve was this badly hurt.  Bucky slips into the space between the IV and your elbow, pressing his cool metal hand achingly gently against Steve’s cheek.  “Look pal, don’t try to talk.  Your voicebox was nearly crushed.  Give the serum time to do its thing.”    

Mr Stubborn is now trying to open his eyes; fighting the twin anchors of fatigue and drug.  It’s incredible but already Steve’s lacerated throat is healing.  What had been the barest pained garble in the Quinjet is now a steady croak.    

 _“Feel fine_.” he whispers.    

Bucky snorts.   “Yeah pal. For a certain definition.  Just because you can talk doesn’t mean you should.”  

As the med team shift to work on Steve’s upper shoulders you take a step aside and settle for lacing your fingers in his nearest hand.   It doesn’t take your famous intuition to know that Steve is _trying_ to behave; to be patient with the process.  He doesn’t so much as twitch as a syringe or suture is put in in; heart rate staying exactly on its normal inhuman low even when the deeper wounds are flushed.   You wince just watching it but he bears it all stoically.   Only the lines on his forehead change.

The bright young resident in surgical cap and ponytail looks up from her needlework, finishing stitching two long incisor wounds that rake Steve’s back almost to the waist.   Glue doesn’t work; it binds too fast once in contact with Steve’s skin and so it’s back to the tried and true.  

He shifts restlessly a second time and she places a soothing hand on his bicep,  understanding what it means.  “Captain, can you give me your pain between 1 and 10?”

“ _6_.”  

Too high.    At the doctor’s nod one of the nurses injects another syringe of greenish liquid into the smaller IV bag.  It’s not carfentanyl  (which _might_ just take off the edge) but Bruce’s own special cocktail: synthetic superpurified opioid with a stabilized half-life to keep Steve’s metabolism from breaking it down too fast.  Hallelujah.  As the IV line takes on a greenish hue the pain melts off Steve’s face and the knot of anxiety melts a little in your chest.

“Doctor Encadra, have you seen these?”    

An older nurse with an otherwise placid face stops swabbing an extra layer of anesthetic wash across Steve’s upper back to frown thoughtfully and gesture to his left shoulder blade.  

“No?”  Suture needle and elbows raised, the doctor comes around the gurney to peer closely at the spot.  A blue gloved finger points to several sites.  

“Multiple stab wounds.  Scapula and ribs.  Bilateral. Straight entry.  Not angled gouges like the claws.”  

Encadra sets the needle aside to lean in closer and peer at the tiny marks.  “Hmmm. I see your point.  Could be mostly healed bites from teeth.”   She straightens up, snaps off her dirty gloves and tips her head toward the window glass where Natasha stands patiently, face inscrutable as always.  “Agent would you please ask Dr. Banner to expedite the blood work and the antivenom?  It appears there are additional teeith punctures.  If so we may have misjudged the poison load.”

“Poison load?!”  

You start forward, heart in mouth and a  jerky movie of the attack playing in your head.  You didn’t know the thing could have poisoned teeth!  It had leapt on Steve’s back, bitten him with sabre teeth, clawed at simply everything.   The remains of the Stealth suit lie in a sad, flacid heap below the metal table.  

Is it possible the serum cannot resist every toxin?

You’re shaking at the thought.  Bucky’s hand squeezes around your arm as Encadra takes a light out of her breast pocket and lifts Steve’s eyelids again, double checking his pupils’ response to light.   She seems satisfied with the result, sheaths the light and catches your wide-eyed look of fright.   “Agent, don’t be overly alarmed.  We are simply acting with an abundance of caution.  Captain Rogers is stable, shows no sign of tachycardia or neurologic deficit.  No undue respiratory distress.  But an unknown substance was found within the wounds.”  

She makes a note on the mobile chart.   “Captain, if you bear with us a little longer I think we should scan those penetration wounds in detail.  I’ll have the CT scanner brought back in.”

Steve’s frowning blearily, trying to speak again.  “ _No need_.”

Encadra smiles and pats him reassuringly on the arm.  “Of course there is,  we will take no chances.”  She has turned to call for the technologist when Steve pulls his hand from yours, shakes his head slowly and weakly bats at your arm, protesting at the order.  

“ _Yourrr, c. cl..”_

What does he mean?  You bend your ear closer to his lips.  

“ _Your claws. They m..mmatch_. ”  

 _My claws?_  you think and then it hits.  Your fingernails.  The long and pointed ones perfectly suited to holding the climbing cleats.  In the frenzied moments behind the shed you’d not thought of how hard you’d gripped.  

Steve blinks hard, now reaching to pull at the doctor’s arm.   “ _No scan. I...."_   He coughs, tries hard to clear his throat and tries again.  “ _I know what they are_.”

“You do…?”  Dr. Encadra looks from Steve to Buck to you, confused.  Bucky, who has always been too smart by half,  stands, mouth twitiching and trying not to laugh.  He bites his lip and your face is flaming, feeling almost as bright as the ARC reactor in Stark’s chest.  

“I do.”   Steve’s voice sounds stronger.  Determination steadies it. Part of you wants to cheer and part wants the floor to open and swallow you up whole.  

“Steve.”  you warn.

From the doorway, Natasha’s green eyes flash with interest and her mouth quirks up.   “Let him speak, Y/N.”  

 _Can this day actually get any worse_?  In your books being outed for post-mission sex with your boss might just be the  perfect shitty ending to a perfectly shitty day, except… it isn’t.  Steve’s going to be ok.  He’s lying there looking less in pain, breathing steadily and with something new shining in his eyes.  

“Want ev’ryone to know.  Bites from another animal.”  

His smile quirks softly around the gauze and in the hushed expectant quiet all the monitors chime a little faster.  Your heart stops for just a moment as he slips his hand back into yours and gently shakes it back and forth.  

“Think I’m gonna keep her.  No remedy for this.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: JTF2 is the Canadian equivalent of Special Ops.  
> Wrangler is a well known brand of denim seen out west.  
> Natasha's Russian translates roughly as "Drop him now!" and "little sister"  
> Thanks to mypatroniousismrpricklepants for the excellent beta and mewiex and mycapt-ohcapt for encouragement  
> Come visit me on tumblr @sian22redux for rocks, hunks, politics and archers


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